"Pshaw!" said Modigisel's neighbor, a bold-looking, elderly nobleman
with a haughty, aristocratic bearing. "We need not fear. We Gundings
are of scarcely less ancient nobility. I do not bow my head to the
Asdings. Least of all before this dissembler."
"You are right, Gundomar!" assented a younger man. "Let us defy the
tyrant."
The giant Thrasaric turned his head and said very slowly but very
impressively: "Listen, Gundomar and Gundobad; you are my guests but
speak ill of Gelimer, and you will fare like those two Romans. So much
wine has gone to my head; but nothing shall be said against Gelimer. I
will not allow it. He, so full of kindness, a tyrant! What does that
mean?"
"It means a usurper."
"How can you say that? He is the oldest Asding."
"After King Hilderic! And was he justly imprisoned and deposed?" asked
Gundomar, doubtfully.
"Was not the whole affair a clever invention?" added Gundobad.
"Not by Gelimer! You do not mean to say that?" cried Thrasaric,
threateningly.
"No! But perhaps by Verus."
"Yes; all sorts of rumors are afloat. There is said to have been a
letter of warning."
"No matter. If your saintly devotee should discover this festival--"
"Then woe betide us! He would deal with you as--"
"He did at the time you wanted to wed your little bride without the aid
of the priest," cried Modigisel, laughing.
"I shall be grateful to him all my life for having struck me down then!
Eugenias are not to be stolen; we must woo them gently." Nodding to the
young girl, he covered her little head and veil with his huge right
hand and pressed it tenderly to his broad breast; a radiant glance from
the large dark antelope eyes thanked him.
But Modigisel had also discovered the charm which such an expression
bestowed upon the innocent, childlike features; his gaze rested
admiringly upon Eugenia. The latter raised herself and whispered in her
lover's ear.
"Gladly, my violet, my little bird," replied Thrasaric. "If you have
promised, you must keep your word. Go with her to the entrance,
brother. To keep one's promise is more necessary than to breathe."
The bride, attended by a group of her friends, was led by Thrasabad
through one of the numerous cross passages out of the Circus.
"Where is she going?" asked Modigisel, following her with ardent eyes.
"To the Catholic chapel close by, which they have made in the little
temple of Vesta. She promised her father to pray there before midnight;
she was forced to resign the blessing of her church at her marriage
with a heretic." The bride's graceful figure now vanished through the
vaulted doorway.
Modigisel began again: "Let me have your little maid, and take my big
sweetheart; you will make almost a hundred pounds by the bargain. True,
in this climate, one ought to choose a slender sweetheart. Is she a
free Roman? Then I, too, will _marry_ her. I won't stop for that."
"Keep your plump happiness, and leave me my slender one. I have by no
means drunk enough from the ocean to make that exchange."
Suddenly Astarte said loudly, "She's nothing but skin and bones!" Both
men started; had she understood their low whispers? Again the full lips
curled slightly, revealing her sharp eye-teeth.
"And eyes! those eyes!" replied Modigisel.
"Yes, bigger than her whole face. She looks like a chicken just out of
the shell!" sneered Astarte. "What is there so remarkable about her?"
The beauty's round eyes glittered with a sinister light.
"A soul, Carthaginian," replied the bridegroom.
"Women have no souls," retorted Astarte, gazing calmly at him. "So one
of the Fathers of the Church taught--or a philosopher. Some, instead of
the soul, have water, like that pygmy. Others have fire." She paused,
her breath coming quickly and heavily. Astarte was indeed beautiful at
that moment, diabolically, bewitchingly beautiful; the exquisitely
moulded, sphinxlike countenance was glowing with life.
"Fire," replied Thrasaric, averting his eyes from her ardent
gaze,--"fire belongs to hell."
Astarte made no answer.
"Eugenia is so beautiful because she is so chaste and pure," sighed
Glauke, who had heard a part of the conversation. Gazing sorrowfully
after the bride, she lowered her long lashes.
"No wonder that you hold her so firmly," Modigisel now said aloud in a
jeering tone. "After your attempt to abduct her failed, you besought
the old grain-usurer to give you the dainty doll as honorably as any
Roman fuller or baker ever wooed the daughter of his neighbor, the
cobbler."
"Yes," assented Gundomar; "but he has celebrated the wedding with as
much splendor as though he were wedding the daughter of an emperor."
"The splendor of the wedding is more to him than the bride," cried
Gundobad, laughing.
"Certainly not," said Thrasaric, slowly. "But one thing is true: since
I have known that she is--that she will be mine--the frantic longing
for her--yet no--that is not true either, I love her fondly. I suppose
it is the wine! The heat! And so much wine!"
"Nothing but wine can help wine," laughed Modigisel. "Here, slaves,
bring Bacchus a second Oceanus."
Thrasaric instantly took a deep draught from the goblet.
"Well?" whispered Modigisel. "I will give you for make-weight to
Astarte my whole fishpond full of muraense, besides the royal villa at
Grasse, for--"
"I am no glutton," replied Thrasaric, indignantly.
"I will add my villa in Decimum; true, I bequeathed it to Astarte; but
she will consent. Won't you?"
Astarte nodded silently. Her nostrils were quivering.
Thrasaric shook his shaggy head.
"I have more villas than I can occupy. Hark, the blast of a tuba. The
races ought to begin. Here, little brother! He has gone. Horses, wine,
and dice are the three greatest pleasures. I would give the salvation
of my soul for the best horse in the world. But--" he took another
draught, of wine--"the best horse! It has escaped me. Through my own
folly! I would give ten Eugenias in exchange."
Astarte laid an ice-cold finger on Modigisel's bare arm; he looked up;
she whispered something, and he nodded in pleased astonishment.
"The best horse? What is its name? And how did it escape you?"
"It is called--the Moorish name cannot be pronounced; it is all _ch_!
We called it Styx. It is a three-year-old black stallion of Spanish
breed, with a Moorish strain, reared in Cyrene. A short time ago, when
the valiant king so eagerly began his preparations for war, the Moors
were informed that we nobles needed fine horses. Among many others,
Sersaon, the grandson of the old chief Cabaon, came to Carthage; he
brought of all the good horses the very best."
"Yes! we know them!" the Vandals assented.
"But among the very best the pearl was Styx, the black stallion! I
cannot describe him, or I should weep for rage that he escaped me. The
Moor who rode him, scarcely more than a boy, said that he was not for
sale. As I eagerly urged him, he asked, grinning in mockery, an
impossible price, which no one in his sober senses would pay,--an
unreasonable number of pounds of gold; I have forgotten how many. I
laughed in his face. Then I looked again at the magnificent animal, and
ordered the slave to bring the money. I placed the leather bag at once
in the Moor's hand; it was in the open courtyard of my house on the
Forum of Constantine. Many other horses were standing there, and
several of our mounted lancers were in the saddle, inspecting them as
they were led up. Then, after I had closed the bargain, I said to my
brother with a sigh: 'It's a pity to pay so much money. The animal is
hardly worth it.' 'It is worth more, and you shall see!' cried the
insolent Moor, as he leaped on the horse and dashed out of the gate of
the courtyard. But he still held the purse in his hand."
"That was too much!" said Modigisel.
"The insolence enraged us all. We followed at once,--at least twenty
men,--our best horses and riders, some on the splendid Moorish steeds
we had just purchased. At the corner of the street he was so near that
Thrasabad hurled his spear at him, but in vain! Though at our cries
people flocked from all the cross streets to stop him in the main one,
there was no checking him. The guards at the southern gate heard the
uproar; they sprang to close the doors, were in the act of shutting
them, but the superb creature darted through like an arrow. We pursued
for half an hour; by that time he had gained so much on us that we
could just see him in the distance like an ostrich disappearing in the
sands of the desert.
"Enraged, loudly berating the faithless Moor, we rode slowly home on
our exhausted steeds. When we reached the house, there in my courtyard
stood the Moor, leaning against the black horse; he had ridden in again
at the western gate. Throwing the gold at my feet, he said: 'Now do you
know the value of this noble animal? Keep your gold! I will not sell
him.' He rode slowly and proudly away. So I lost Styx, the best horse
in the world. Ha, is this a delusion? Or is it the heavy wine? Down
below--in the arena--beside the other racers--"
"Stands Styx," said Astarte, quietly.
"To whom does the treasure belong?" shrieked Thrasaric, frantically.
"To me," replied Modigisel.
"Did you buy him?"
"No. In the last foray the animal was captured with some camels and
several other horses."
"But not by you?" roared Thrasaric. "You were at home as usual, in
Astarte's broad shadow."
"But I sent thirty mercenaries in my place; they captured the animal,
tied in the Moorish camp; and what the mercenary captures--"
"Is his employer's property," said Thrasabad, who had entered the box
again.
"So--this wonder--belongs to--you?" exclaimed Thrasaric, wild with
envy.
"Yes, and to you as soon as you wish."
Thrasaric emptied a huge goblet of wine.
"No, no," he said; "at least not so--not by my will. She is a free
woman, no slave, whom I could give away, even if I should ever desire
it."
"Only resign your right to her. It will be easy--for money--to find a
reason for annulling the marriage."
"She is a Catholic, he an Arian," whispered Astarte.
"Of course! That will do! And then merely let me--Gelimer cannot always
strike down her abductor."
"No! Silence! Not so! But--we might throw dice! Then the dice, chance,
would have decided--not I! Oh, I can, I can--think no longer! If I
throw higher, each shall keep what he has; if I throw lower, I
will--no, no! I will not! Let me sleep!" And overcome by the wine, in
spite of the uproar around him, he dropped his huge rose-garlanded head
on both arms, which lay folded on the marble front of the box.
Modigisel and Astarte exchanged significant glances.
"What do you expect to gain by it?" asked Modigisel. "He won't exchange
for you; only for the horse."
"But she--that nun-faced girl--shall not have him! And my time will
come later!"
"If I release you from my patronage."
"You will."
"I don't know yet."
"Oh, yes, you will," she answered coaxingly.
But even as she spoke, she again threw back her head and closed her
eyes.
* * * * *
After a brief slumber the bridegroom was shaken rudely by his brother.
"Up!" cried the latter; "Eugenia has come back. Let her take her
place--"
"Eugenia! I did not throw dice for her. I don't want the horse. I made
no promise."
He started in terror; for Eugenia was standing before him with the
Ionian; her large dark-brown eyes, whose whites had a bluish cast, were
gazing searchingly, anxiously, distrustfully, into the very depths of
his soul. But she said nothing; only her face was paler than usual. How
much had she heard--understood? he asked himself.
Thrasabad's slave humbly made way for her.
"I thank you. Aphrodite."
"Oh, do not call me by that name of mockery and disgrace! Call me as my
dear parents did at home before I was stolen,--became booty, a
chattel."
"I thank you, Glauke."
"The races cannot take place," lamented Thrasabad, to whom a freedman
had just brought a message.
"Why not?"
"Because no one will bet against the stallion which Modigisel entered
last of all. It is Styx; you know him."
"Yes, I know him! I made no promise, did I, Modigisel?" he asked in a
low, hurried tone.
"Yes, certainly! To throw the dice. Recollect yourself!"
"Impossible!"
"You said: 'If I throw higher, each shall keep what he has; if I throw
lower--'"
"Oh, God! Yes! It's nothing, little one! Don't heed me."
He turned again to Modigisel, whispering, "Give me back my promise!"
"Never!"
"You can break it," sneered Astarte.
"Serpent!" he cried, raising his clinched fist, but he controlled
himself; then, helpless as a bear entangled in a net, the giant turned
beseechingly to Modigisel: "Spare me!"
But the latter shook his head.
"I will withdraw the stallion from the races," he said aloud to
Thrasabad. "I am satisfied with the fact that no one dares to run
against him."
"Then the race can take place, but at the end of the entertainment.
First, there are two surprises which I have prepared for you in another
place. Come, Glauke, your hand; up, rise! Follow me, all you guests of
Thrasaric, follow me to the Amphitheatre."